Monday, September 29, 2008

Stuffer Boy Sunday and Technical Difficulties

As you may have noticed, it's not, in fact, Sunday. However, rather than a tale of too many drinks Sunday night, I can only tell you that my house's wireless is busted. It's paid for by all of us, but now the wireless people are claiming they never got the first payment...which was sent to them a year ago.

Such snafus are common, but it means I might not be on very much in the coming weeks, if at all. Don't worry, tho, there's a few more scheduled posts, so things won't dissapear entirely...but for the next couple weeks the blog is kinda on hiatus.

I'll be back, tho, to spread more word about "the rarest fetish in the world". Might even have the last installment in that story about Rufus. ;)

In the meantime, enjoy some watermelon:


◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!

◆ Are YOU the next stuffer boy? Submit a photo to missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com

Friday, September 26, 2008

BBW Friday: Gia

Gia has the sun in her eyes, but there's something about this photo set that made me linger. Maybe it was her pouty mouth or her figure, her heaviness well balanced between her breasts and ass. Or maybe it's because her wardrobe almost says vintage pinup, contrasted with the modern get-straight-to-what-you're-looking-for poses.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Stuffer Boy Sunday: Bartleby Jones

I love before and after pics.

Take a good look at this boy's belly, my tummy-loving peeps: what do you think? You might be hearing more about him on this blog in the future.


Bartleby Jones' Myspace

◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!

◆ Are YOU the next stuffer boy? Submit a photo: missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com

Friday, September 19, 2008

BBW Friday: Simone Fox


I suppose technically this isn't so much a BBW Friday post as a Big Boob Friday post.

The appreciation of mammoth tits isn't exactly my fetish, but it goes with the territory of admiring larger bodies. It's a liking I can understand, somewhat along the same principles that I understand liking chocolate cake: if one slice is great, wouldn't a bigger slice be even better?

But, just like with chocolate cake, it's easy to get into overload. Looking at the picture above, I think, Those are some damn big titties. But then I see the rest of the gallery. Those tits aren't just big enough to squeeze a strawberry in, they're big enough to write her entire name on in whipped cream. And then she eats the strawberry, using her tits as her own personal dipping bowl. And then she smears it all around until she resembles nothing so much as a pair of giant melons that have been dipped in half and half until they're dripping--

God, you're still here? Go look at the gallery already--I've gone into sugar shock.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Warm Milk, Part 2: Molly Arrives

Sexy stuffing stories, my peeps: it's what I live for. Here's part 1 if you wanna catch up.

* * *

There was a knock on the door.

Rufus jumped up from the sofa. He had shaved, buttoned up, tucked in, and gave himself a quick look in the mirror before he opened the door. In that single second of pull a tingle seized his crotch--half sex, half fear at not knowing who he would find on the other side.

And there she was.

"You must be Molly," he said, not knowing what else to say.

Molly lowered her head, but a small smile upturned one corner of her mouth. "He said you were pretty," she said, looking up at him through her long eyelashes, "and it's true."

The corner of each of her merry eyes was decorated with a tiny red jewel, and her dimpled cheek had a beauty mark on it. Rufus felt all his tension sigh out--and his chest swell again on the next breath.

"And you are adorable," he told her, "a little burlesque princess."

Molly stepped inside, taking it all in: the balcony with the view of the city in the pouring rain, the fully equipped kitchen, the door to the bedroom. Then she undid her belt, turned, and allowed her trench to slide down off her shoulders. "Take my coat?" she asked him sweetly.

Slowly, Rufus curled his fingers under the collar, between the fabric and her warm skin, and the coat slid off. Underneath she was wearing thigh-highs, frilly red panties, and a corset teddy that completely failed to conceal the thickness of her waist or her round soft belly. She had a pert rump, and two bouncy breasts ready to spill from their cups as soon as she bent over. She stood smiling at him a little, her hands rising to tighten the combs that held her curly hair back--her eyes asked him if he was pleased.

Rufus felt a pleasurable twinge in his belly, and without thinking reached out to draw her closer to him. She was smaller than he was--she could pillow her head on his breast, and he could rest his chin on the top of her head. He heard her give a little "Oh," as she came up against his broad chest and his soft tummy, the same combination that had so enticed Andre Six. She lay one of her little manicured hands on his chest, the nails red as love, and then she tweaked his nipple!

He felt a tickle: one of her hands grope around, squeezed one of his love handles through his shirt. "You're soft," she said."

"Softer than most boys, I've been told." His voice had deepened, coming up from his chest.

"Not as soft as I am, though," she said, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

I bet you are, he thought, eyeing her thick waist--she might even outweigh him a little, for all their difference in height. "I'd like to kiss you," he said.

"I'm surprised you waited this long," she said, and turned her face up to him, her flower-pink lips parted prettily.

He caught her open mouthed, and as their kiss deepened he felt her arms slide under his, gripping his shoulder blades--a harness of lust. Rufus ran her hands down the curves of her sides, feeling the hard ribs of her corset and then the soft, soft globes of her rump beneath. He was pressing his palms to them, about to squeeze, when with a little flip of her head she came loose from his mouth. Rufus was left staring stupidly at her, his lips still parted. She bit him gently on the lower lip.

"Want to help me carry my bags?" she asked, smiling.

The door was still open. Her bags were out in the hallway, a large one made of maroon crocodile, and two paper grocery bags. When he brought them in for her he noticed they held a gallon of milk and a new six pack of Orange Crush.

Rufus smiled.

* * *

Part three is next, so stay tuned!


◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!

Monday, September 15, 2008

Stuffer Boy Sunday Isn't Just for Sundays: n2bfed

me 230, originally uploaded by n2bfed.

EDIT: Hey all, sorry about the lateness of this one. I somehow scheduled it funny--one of the hazards of late night updates.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Hot Pussy

My pussy was burning. But the hand mirror I held "down there" showed me a pair of angry red lips that had nothing sexy about them.

I was perplexed. In the year and some that I'd begun devoting serious attention to my naughty bits, they'd never acted like this. When I held my hand over my cunt lips I could feel the heat beating out from them, feverish.

Being too poor to just run to the doctor, first I tried to self-diagnose using the internet. Perhaps the BHM had switched fingers when he had one up my ass, one up my pussy? But pissing didn't result in the fiery burn I had feared. Perhaps it was a first symptom of some other kind of infection--but my undergarments remained free of cottage cheese.

Finally, I did what I always do when I'm confused about anything that can't be mentioned in public: I called Q. She listened to my tale of woe and then asked one question: "How much sex have you been having?"

I told her that I'd had a two hour session yesterday and a three-hour session the day before that. And that was it this week. She laughed and told me, "You have Honeymoonitus!"

Hmm. I'd heard of people being sore from having too much sex, I told her, but I'd thought it more likely to happen after six day sex orgies rather than after a nice shagging twice a week.

Q. was cracking up on the other end of the line. "No matter what people tell you, Molly," she said, "your sex life is not average."

She also told me not to use too much hydroccortizone cream on it for too long, for that could actually make it worse (she didn't know why, tho, as that cream is supposed to make it better). Also to use more lube.

I promised to follow her advice, and two days after I stopped using the cream my pussy was fine. The test of using more lube will have to wait on the BHM, but perhaps I'll be able to give you the results next week.

Skinny Sumo Wrestler

day120 Sumo, originally uploaded by jessbair.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Chat of the Week: How Americans Have Sex

I don't know what I wrote anymore, but my UK friend Cee found it pretty offensive.

Cee: Theres a diffrence between being sexy and tasteless, you know

Me: I never quite figured that line out, I suppose. Anyway, feederism is supposed to be messy. Sex is messy. Or maybe I am just a tasteless American chubby chick.

Cee: Yeah, you'd fuck a bald eagle burger on top of the stars and stripes.

Me: Wow.

Cee: With a baseball shoved in your asshole--

Me: um...

Cee: --underneath your gun rack whilst your sister watches. American dream. :)

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Belly Brigade: over_under

over_under, originally uploaded by golo.

It is with great glee that I announce a new feature on my blog: the Belly Brigade! Once a week I'll be posting a particularly amazing photo of a tummy, stomach, belly, or gut...or guts, as the case may be.

Pervertables: or, Seeing My Own Fetish the Way Freud Sees Penises

If you read a lot of too many sex blogs, you might come across pervertables. As Amourous Propensistes says, a pervertable can be defined as, "When commonplace items are converted to erotic." BDSM people can have great fun with this (a spatula can whack a bottom as easily as a flogger). But conouseurs of other, rarer fetishes practice another form of perversion altogether: the scouring of movies, books, and Google for media that unknowingly dials the number of our own sick fantasies.

Anyone who is spending time on this site and has also seen Willy Wonka or the cartoon version of Charlotte's Web is nodding by now.

So it is with the deepest apologies to MikeCindynJoe, the author(s?) of the blog Shared Cindy, for pointing my readers to a post that begins with gluttony and ends with a fuckfest between two men and two women. Here's a snippet:

For myself I shamelessly devoured a bratwurst, 2 beef tamales, 2 teriyaki sticks, a BBQ'ed pulled-pork sandwich, an ear of roasted corn dripping with butter, and a warm funnel cake drizzled with smashed strawberries and dusted with powdered sugar. OMG! All of this was interspersed with numerous samples of beers from their respective countries of origin (burp).

It was dark when we finally left and we were so overstuffed we were practically in pain...

The next morning, a tender scene begins:

Seeing Cindy already in the process of getting spit-roasted caused Suzy to mock-pout and say, "Hey... no fair!" and she quickly crossed the room and gave Cindy a gentle shove that caused her to roll over onto her side, leaving Joe and me with stiff, wet erections throbbing in midair. Before Cindy could recover, Suzy quickly crawled onto the bed, took Cindy's place and her husband's stiff dick in her mouth and offered her upturned and shapely ass to me. Wow.

Read the whole post here.

Monday, September 8, 2008

Perhaps Frida Kahlo was an FFA?

Frida y Diego, found at From the Books of Ex Libris

"Part of Riviera's attraction was his female aspect--Frida loved, she said, 'the sensitivity of his wonderful breasts'." --Frida Kahlo: the Paintings, Hayden Herrera.

I'm "home" for a few days, visiting Q. in another town. A lot of my old books are here, stored for when I'd want them after college. I picked up the Frida Kahlo book on a whim, but this sentence made me sit up even through the jet lag of traveling for four hours.

Diego was legendary for having lots of women, despite his "elephantine" charms. You saw the movie, right? Always the most beautiful girls. I used to wonder how he managed to do that, but now that I've had the BHM, it suddenly makes sense. Rivera must have had the same aloof look, coupled with a gentleness of touch that left it up to me to decide how far he could go the first time...and the next, and the next. And their faces must have worn the same look of wickedness when his tongue dipped down into a woman's body, into me for the first time, making me feel things that I never had before.

People can say that this is what women really want, they don't care for looks, but I also like the BHMs body as it is. Even though he is not an artist, the BHM is far better looking than Rivera ever was.


◆ The Archives: the BHM

BBW Friday: Sophia Rose


Sunday, September 7, 2008

Stuffer Story: Warm Milk

Here it is at last: the first part of one of my stuffer stories.

Rufus Hex

Rufus Hex hated hotel rooms.

Strange aversion, for a musician, but then he had spent his formative years in a dormitory, rather than on the road. Upon his becoming more well-known he had become more familiar with them, but had hated them none the less. He despised them whether they were clean with huge smothering comforters, so quiet you could hear the ice rattle in the machine at the end of the hallway, or old ratty ones where the coverings scratched and the AC banged all night long.

This one was pretty, though, with a huge picture window looking out on New York City. And a kitchen and private bath. When he had come in he thought this might, possibly, be the first hotel room he would have liked--for there would have also been a pretty boy in it, barefoot, with neatly pressed shirts, a magically small waist, and bare feet below the immaculate suit.

Instead it was raining, and Rufus was kneeling on the sofa, his tummy pressed into the rough cloth, and listened to Mister Six talking about canceled flights.

"And there's no other way...?" asked Rufus. He brushed his hair out of his eyes as he listened. It was jet black and very long, but the stylists had it dyed deep blue so that in light it shimmered with indigo highlights.

"...but it doesn't really matter," said Mister Six into his ear, "because I'm going to be there for a whole week afterwards..."

Yes but not this day, this time we agreed on. Instead of the vision he had been nursing all day--all week--all the month they had been sending a web of e-mails and texts and late-night phone calls to create a vision, an idea, that Rufus Hex and Mister Six might actually meet in a hotel room and touch one another, become real, he would have to pretend he had more important things in his life, plans, hobbies, and read books whose words he would not even remember the next day. He felt the whole day opening up before him, empty, a wasteland.

"All right", said Rufus, and he could hear every drop of his defeat pressing through those words. "Love you." Press end. He put his arms down on the sofa back and watched it rain.

It was all so fragile, he reflected, these ridiculous assignments. There was no Mister Andre Six. All this time he had been making love to a photograph without seeming to notice...only this one could talk, would tell him how much to drink, how to finger his ass, could whisper all the gluttonous fantasies that would never fail to bring him to orgasm...There had been days he thought he could not live without that voice in his ear. But today, what did he have?

Rufus heaved an immense sigh, miserable with his own stupidity, and flung himself back on the sofa with his arm on his eyes. He should have known better. These things seemed so simple--Mister Six would move from one point to another, and the two would meet, point A and point R, when in reality it was just another torment.

Rufus had unbuttoned his shirt in his privacy and anticipation, and realized he had been unconsciously tracing his soft nipples. They were large, each with a nip of softness underneath them....not moobs, but proof his stockiness wasn't all just broad shoulders. His skin was perfect, an almost phosphorescent white, which had somehow come out along with his pure black hair and sleepy blue eyes, with their girlishly long lashes. He fervently wished that it was not his own broad hands touching his nipples, and that made him rub them until they became hard. He traced the scar around one of them, followed the spiral down his chest and then to his tummy, which made him smile. Unlike most pop singers, Rufus had no abs, just a gentle rounding below his pectorals. Around the height of his navel it became more pronounced, a soft bulge of tummy, and he remembered the gasp of joy he'd heard when he had taken off his shirt for the first time in front of Mister Six, modeling for him in front of the webcam.

Rufus grinned without realizing he was doing so. That was the power that Andre Six had over him, that even in his disappointment, even when he wanted to throw his laptop across the room in his frustration, just the idea of him could get him off. Rufus curved his back slightly, pushed out his stomach muscles, and ran his broad hand down his belly, caressing. There was something special about that curve, something so delightful in the feeling of soft, delicate flesh that was a secret key to all his lust. He pulled his tummy in, pressed it out, began to rub a little harder, faster.

His phone throbbed in his hand. Check e-mail, it said.

Andre Six to me:

virgin sucks ass.

but i don't want you to have a sad birthday. and, actually, one of your presents was supposed to come today. but since i can't be there, i thought sending you an e-mail would be best.

Happy Birthday, Rufus: i got you a tummy fluffer!

"A what?" said Rufus, though there was no one to hear him. He had learned a lot of words from Mister Six in the six months that they had been emailing each other, such as feeder, feedee, stuffing, and inflation (though Rufus felt like he had never quite been able to get over that last one.) Still, this word was entirely unknown to him.

as far as i can tell, she's the first of her kind. but she's something you'll really like. she's quiet and adorable, and will help you with whatever you want, but she says she likes boy's bellies best. i've told her your likes and dislikes and she should come prepared to cater to them. she's a good masseuse.

she told me she liked boys with black hair, blue eyes, "and I like it if they're taller than me they should have a little bit of a tummy." now, who does that sound like?

her name is Molly Ren, but she likes to be called "kitten".

The attached picture was of a very curvy lady, dressed in a corset and with some very frilly underthings on. She had curly hair. Rufus couldn't tell much more about her, however, because the main focus of the photo was her behind.

* * *

More to come! Part 2 is now here!

Still waiting for that story?

It's coming, I promise. Just a little longer...

But I know some of you will be nodding and smirking a little. Y'all know what a big tease I am. ;)

It's Sunday! You know what that means...

...stuffer boys!

And don't worry, they're coming. But they're not going to be your usual pic. Instead, you'll get a hot stuffer story, once of the first peices of my book Champagne. There'll be some boy-on-boy action...and a big box of doughnuts.

Stay tuned!

Friday, September 5, 2008

"You Can Do Better": Part 2

Part 1 is here.

We're taking a little trip back in time, sex blog readers. It's April 2008, I'm drunk at a party, and I've just been pulled into my first kiss with a BHM.

* * *

Oh, I thought. How long has he been like this?

All those times I'd seen the BHM at parties, all the times I'd sat with his group to have lunch, he'd never given me anything more than sidelong glances. I think I'd spoken to him exactly once, and now he was pressing me to him as if he'd wanted me for ages.

And he was enormous. Not "heavy", not "chunky"--he had to be close to 300 pounds, his great belly pressed up against me when we kissed. We came apart and he said something about the way I looked compared to him. "It's ok," I said, my hand on his belly, "I like BHMs."

"What?" he said.

Shut up and kiss him, I admonished myself.

He kept wanting me to go somewhere, to "sit down". I had my arm around his neck. "I dunno," I said, made merry by his lack of subtlety, "do you have any condoms?"

I think this was too forward even for the sloppy drunkards we had both become. He said some more things that I don't remember except that they riled me up enough to tease him. I put one hand on my hip and trilled, "I dunno, you are older than I am."

The BHM is one of those students who, for one reason or another, end up going to college at the age when most of his peers had finished graduate school. With this memory other details began to float to the surface of my brain. T.'s girlfriend--who had once been Constantine's girlfriend, but I pushed that thought away--had called the BHM "the biggest lush in school." That's all I knew about the BHM, and after Constantine I had had enough of drunkards. I began to push him away. He suggested once more that we go sit on a nearby bench.

I guess my legs were tired. "You take eye shots," I accused as we sat down.

"Psh," he said, and we made out again. This time when we came apart he asked me if he wanted to go up to his room. When I had protested at him peeling me off the only girl I had touched in two years, he said it had been a year since he had had sex.

Apparently I was the cure for this. But then again he probably didn't get fucked much, he was a BHM. Suddenly I felt sorry for him, all alone against the bodily prejudices of the world. And the way we kept making out...

I pulled myself away from his mouth, rehearsing the reasons in my head: It's not you, it's me...

"You can do better," he said.

"Better than what?"

Better than a dumb excuse like that, he said.

Oh, fuck: did I actually say something as uncool as that? "It's true," I said, taking refuge in what Constantine had taught me. "I'm a cold heartless bitch."

"That's not true..."

We made out some more.

X. and Constantine had been all about frenching, to the degree where normal kissing was something exotic for me. Even with those experiences, the BHM had an unusually skilled tongue. He encircled his with mine, tracing spirals. My tongue bumped and shoved against his. Even though I had never experienced the kind of attention he put into frenching before, I teased him when he began to delicately explore my teeth. Ah, you don't have just one trick! I exclaimed, but he still wanted me to come with him to his room.

I was thinking I could maybe do it, I wasn't held to conventional ideas of who to and who not to fuck. There was Mr. R., six foot three, long black hair and a soft overhanging belly... Mr. S., who was short and soft all over, with a whiff of cruelty about him from his dalliances with Constantine....

The BHM wasn't like any of those people. He kept putting my arm on his shoulder, like the neediest nerd boy.

"No," I bleated, "it'll be weird afterwards. And I really wanted a girl," I wailed, suddenly remembering that was what I had been originally after.

"That's not the issue," he kept saying.

"No," I said, "I lay with the Jackrabbit and Constantine, and it was weird afterwards."

I got off the bench and walked away. I looked back a little later and he was gone. I was surprised it was so simple.

It was around 2 am, the hour when parties died and everyone who hadn't hooked up yet would be too drunk to fuck. That was my last chance of the night, I thought to myself, if I couldn't find someone else to fuck in the next twenty minutes I might as well go back to my room and cry into my pillow.

I made one last circuit of the campus. No one, no one, not my girl or a blonde girl or girl with braces. I did find the class math whiz laying on the grass. I came up to him slowly, my hands out as if to fend him off. "I know a billion people have probably asked you this--"

"GET THE FUCK AWAY!!!" he roared.

I went away, figuring that if he was well enough to yell like that he could have his beer-induced existential crisis by himself. I passed one of his friends, much soberer than I and carrying a cup of water and a wet washcloth for him.

Why hadn't I done it? I said to myself later, stripping down to the skin in my room. I didn't know why I had given up the chance at something so rare I spent all of my leisure planning and scheming for it. I pulled out my laptop, found my favorite sex blog, and started reading about orgies--a good plan because I soon became so distracted I forgot to cry. I probably masturbated before I finally succumbed to exhaustion and the acceptance of my own bad luck.

* * *

The next day, Friday, we had off from classes. Even after I had showered, breakfasted, and begun my class reading for Monday, I was still thinking about him. In the beginning, I wasn't sure why he excited me so much.

He wasn't horrible, as fat guys went--he was friendly-looking. I had even vaguely considered him at one point, before I had become brave enough that having longings and the voicing of those longings weren't completely divorced.

And yet... and yet...

I should have said something like, "Dude, you're a boy and produce sperm. That's not a good combination when I'm this drunk." Girls were a lot less dangerous in terms of fuck ups, at least in this case. Lots less chance of STDs with muff diving too, though HIV was always a factor...

Right, bisexual girl, I thought, it's all about his gender.

Or I hadn't been 100% comfortable with him. "I don't KNOW you," I had kept saying. "You take eye shots." Of course, I hardly had known my girl either, I had just wrapped my arms around her and went for it.

It was that, then: such things could only happen when I was fully in control, when I wanted it.

It's not your body, I had been trying to tell him in my drunk and inarticulate manner, it's just you. In the back of my mind I was hearing people say, Gawd, she got with him? "Him" being not "that fat guy" but the lush, the horny drunkard. Of course, if I had been fully attracted to him I wouldn't have cared what people said--or what he thought, either. I had screwed plenty of people far worse personality traits than his.

And I left it at that. After a year without sex, he might have been happy to have me use him. But the next day--the start of a whole empty weekend without sex--I was still happy about my decision.

* * *


◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

"You Can Do Better": Part 1

We're going to be doing a bit of time travel now, dear sexblog readers, so bear with me. This happened back in April 2008, when I was still in college. Like most colleges, the night we finished our finals was given up to the senior skit and drunken parties. And like most college students, I was horny and out for blood.

This is different from most stories I've posted on here in that there's a lot of lesbian making out. But if you're worried you might get bored reading about a pretty BBW getting some girl-on-girl action, just hang in there: there's also a BHM.

* * *

I woke up on Friday at noon. I put my arm over my eyes to shut out the sunlight as last night became present memory: I had gotten drunk, and I was still miffed about the girl.

Two girls.

* * *

Thursday was prank night, a secret that the entire campus already knew. I had been assigned no real job except to photograph the insanity, but ended up holding the ladder for one of the more shapely members of my class as she climbed up to hang banners. Her dress was sparkly, gold, and short. Very short. Dude, I thought, I hope she's wearing underwear and cursed the gods when my hopes were fulfilled.

Other than that, the pranks we pulled on the underclassmen went off without a hitch. Things were cheerful enough as long as the drinking was going on, but once they were all packed into an auditorium for the satiric skit the senior class had dreamed up, things began to get ugly.

First, one of the MCs was hit in the face with a cheap blue kickball. He leaped off the stage, jumped over the first row of seats and a fistfight began. Another senior grabbed hold of the microphone and called them off.

Then the audience started throwing beer cans.

I was trying to take photos of what was happening on the stage when one zipped by my head, spraying beer. Then others. Some of the cans were crushed, some full. Still the prank play went on. They hoisted V.-- the sexiest girl in school--onto their shoulders, her hands wrapped with chains. The gayest boy in school was crowned king and treated to half-naked men giving him a massage. Then he was overthrown and they hauled the shyest boy in school on the stage and crowned him instead.

The audience roared. They climbed out of their seats and onto the stage.

"That's it, that's it, it's over!" yelled the MC into the microphone. The auditorium emptied out, the outer lobby became dark, and the dancing began.

I went out, reloaded film, and realized that in all this screaming crowd I was the only one not yet drunk. I found the Atheist and his friends, dressed in black and smoking cigarettes and complaining about how bad the skit had been. Constantine was there. He had a paper crown on his hair, a feathery tinseled thing that would have been worn at a three-year-old's birthday or virgin's bachelorette party. He had his girlfriend on his arm, and as I talked with the Atheist their making out became more and more explicit. She touched his chest, they put their arms around one another, they came closer and closer until they kissed, he laughed, he caressed her ass.

"Atheist," I said, "you used to be an alcoholic. Tell me where I can get something to drink that isn't beer."

"Behind the stage," he said, "if it isn't all gone."

"I'll see you when I'm drunk," I said.

Behind the stage was a nearly full pint of gin. I hate tonic water so I poured it straight, tried to drink it. I found a half-empty liter of Coke and used that as a mixer. I on the way out I snagged a cold can of Keystone Light and took it with me--I wanted to see if I could shotgun it, later.

Then I saw the girl.

She said something about having lost her purse. Upon inquiry she had either left it in the lobby or somewhere else. I followed along without being invited.

She found the purse on the floor, dangerously close to the spilled drinks that marked the edge of the dance floor. She put it on without seeming to notice that I had followed her--I pulled on the strap to get her attention. "Are you really bi?" I asked.

She looked offended that I would doubt her. "Yeah."

"Are you really drunk?"


"How drunk?"

"I dunno..."

"Are you drunk enough to kiss me?" I asked.

'Well..." she said and her mouth bore down on me.

Ten minutes later my chin was slick with her mouth juices. I couldn't call it spit, it was too sweet and lovely for that. My arm was around her waist, feeling the muscles through her tight shirt. Then a well-meaning friend came and pulled her away.

"You ruined a beautiful thing," I told the friend later that night. Like all drunkards I was easily distracted, and my girl had seemed to disappear directly she was taken away. But I saw her once more, a long time later. She was trying to hold up a shorter blond girl.

"Tonight's not the night," she said, noticing me.

"I think it's a good night," I said, tracing my fingers down her belly.

The blond girl was hanging off her, they were so tangled up together each step taunted the ground with their falling.

"Later," she said, moving off. "I'll remember."

"Sure," I said, knowing that she would forget. They staggered off for a hundred yards or so before finally sitting down in the soccer field and I forgot they existed. I found myself with my arm around a girl with braces.

"So-and-so hit on me earlier," she said.

"So-and-so is a slut," I said.

"You're right," she laughed, "he is a slut!"

"I'm a slut too," I said, and then we were lip-locked.

"I have a girlfriend," she said when we came apart.

"Who's your girlfriend?"

"She isn't here..."

Since she was still kissing me I was sure we could work something out.

Then I felt a hand on my arm. I looked up to see the BHM, a very large boy a year below me, come to save the damsel from my clutches. He wasn't letting go, so I sighed and then smiled and released my prize.

"Ok, I'll let you go because you have a girlfriend," I said. "M.'s right there--go dance with her."

The BHM was turning me towards him. He was blurry from the Keystone Light, and I whined something about not having had a girl in years. He said that wasn't the issue, put my arm on his shoulder, and began to French me.

Oh, I thought. How long has he been like this?

* * *

Part two will be posted later.


The Who's Who of Stuffies

Monday, September 1, 2008

The Experiment

This would have been Molly's 104th post.

On other blogs, such a milestone would count for cake and champagne (or, in my case, a liter of Diet Coke and pack of Mentos.) Instead, Molly has taken a long, hard look at what she wants the future of this blog to be.

When she first came to me, eager to show off what she claimed to be "The Very First Feederism Blog, Anywhere!" I was as excited as she. I am a stuffer myself, and wildly interested in anyone's efforts to legitimize this delightful subculture. A blog devoted particularly to the intestinal workings of the most beautiful of creatures, stuffer boys, made me hurry to my bedroom in anticipation of a long session of critique.

My verdict? A quiet, yet adamant: "It's dull, dear."

Her eyes filled, but I went on: "This isn't at all what you envisioned--where are the descriptions of real life stuffing orgies you've attended? Your creation of a pinhole camera for a tour of the UK, in which you would take glorious black and white photos for Stuffies Magazine, Issue 1? Where are your drafts for Champagne, the full-length fetish novel starring myself, Rufus and Rihanna with full-color illustrations by mamabliss? All you have to show for your hundreds of hours of wanking is a very ugly template--" she protested that all Blogger templates were so--"and a lot of poorly archived photos! And--" I raged on, for this made me the most indignant of all, "what was with your ridiculous insistence on referring to me as fictional?!"

I admit for someone who so loves the softer sex, I can be very hard sometimes. Fortunately, Molly was only briefly dismayed. She knows that the best cure for when I get uppity is to tell me to stuff it-- in this case, by shoving a Twinkie in my mouth. Nevertheless, it required the additional administration of several liters of soda before I was fully quieted.

Later, having eased me by unbuttoning my suddenly-too-tight-clothes, she gently whispered to me the realities of the world. Sex blogging, of whatever kind, is a labor of love, for which few, if any, receive compensation. Her carefree college days are over, along with much of her free time. She must begin a search for a real career--one that will help her pay off the thousands of dollars she has incurred in college loans. The writers of a few of the other sex blogs she reads so voraciously sometimes work out ways to get paid for it, but she has yet to do that--and she feels odd simply asking for handouts. To carry out the projects she's envisioned, she'll need more readers, writers, artists, and fetish enthusiasts to help her--connections she has yet to make. And, she added, since Saturday she has had shooting pains in her right wrist, perhaps the onset of carpal tunnel after all this blogging--

"But," I pointed out as her hand cupped the fullest part of my belly, giving it a gentle squeeze, "it does get you real life dates with stuffer boys."

Though a mention of the Cheesecake Factory is enough to distract me, I do sometimes make some very good points. This one was enough to make her change her whole outlook. And so, as she continued rubbing my stuffed belly and I encouraged her with a gurgle or a moan every now and then, she laid out a new plan for Stuffies. She would try to write Champagne. Every week she would try--she laid particular emphasis on try--to post a new, polished segment of six stories that would have to do with our adventures in stuffing, bloating, and lots of m/m/f sex. I smiled at her projected number of tales.

"And the weekly BBWs and stuffer boys," I urged, "you shouldn't stop those. And Jaime has sent you the next installement in his adventures with the BBW Candy. And--"

She stuffed another Twinkie in my mouth.

But you, dear Reader--how will you keep up with these still-constant, but less scheduled updates? There are lots of ways!

♥ You can subscribe! Click on the box on the left that says "Subscribe to Stuffies"--that will bring you to the Stuffies RSS Feed!

♥ You can friend Molly on Myspace, and receive blog invites and updates from there.

What else can you do to help Molly?

♥ Leave comments! Comments, ideas, and constructive criticism are all welcome!

♥ E-mail Molly! Do you have an article or photo to submit, or just want to send her a link to something feeder-related on the web? You can send her a message on missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com.

♥ Or you can send her a message on one of her profiles on Fantasy Feeder, Myspace, Fetlife , or Curvage.

"I think I'll answer all my e-mails on Sundays," she said, gently laying her plump thigh across my hip. "And who knows? Maybe someday..."

But what "someday" would be I never got to hear. Cradling my bursting belly, I was already asleep, dreaming of my former adventures...and envisioning those that would come tomorrow.